


Something Else to Keep Her Up at Night

by just_a_dram



Series: A City [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family Dynamics, Implied Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Love, Stress Baking, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: Cat throws herself into preparations for Thanksgiving dinner to drown out her concerns about Jon coming home.





	Something Else to Keep Her Up at Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DKNC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/gifts).



> This fic takes place after the Jon POV final chapter of A City of Fortune and Failure and before the Sansa POV Epilogue.

“Come to bed. You’ve been at it all day.”

Cat twists to give her husband a quick smile over her shoulder. “I’ve got one more pie to make,” she says, turning back to the stove. Sugar can burn and boil over so quickly, and getting it off the stainless without scratching the surface is nearly impossible.

Ned walks over, brow furrowed. “How many pies do seven of us need?”

There are three cooling behind him. It’s overkill. She knows that, and yet, she can’t help herself: it's Thanksgiving.

“The crust is ready to go. It won’t take me but a minute to finish.”

Or fifty minutes, but after waking up at six to start preparing Thanksgiving dinner, another hour is hardly going to make a difference. Her feet are already shot and her neck is in knots.

“What is it?” he asks, leaving forward to peer into the slowly bubbling saucepan.

“Pecan.”

Robb’s favorite. She hasn’t made it since he died, couldn’t bear to pull her recipe out, much less place it on the sideboard in the dining room. But Bran asked if she was making a pecan pie, while he watched her peel two pounds of potatoes, and she decided there was no reason to ban a classic just because her boy always ate the biggest slice.

“Smells good.”

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” she says, cutting off the inevitable request for a slice.

The pace of the boil has just reached the right point and she grabs for the black pot holder, scorched on the one side from one of Jon’s sad cooking attempts. She frowns, as she lifts the saucepan off the stove and sidesteps the kitchen stepstool to set it down on a hot spot.

“What’s wrong, Cat?”

“Hand me the bowl there,” she says, nodding at the mixing bowl, where she’s already cracked the eggs.

“You’ve looked like you were going to have an argument with a casserole since this afternoon.”

Pulling a clean whisk from the utensil crock, she takes the bowl from him. “I’m just nervous about how this weekend is going to go.”

“With Jon.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not,” she says, resting the bowl in the crook of her arm.

“They were perfectly behaved over the fourth.”

“Perfect angels, I’m sure,” Cat says, the last half of her statement partially obscured by the rasp of the whisk against the Pyrex.

“Then they hid whatever they were up to pretty well. That’s probably all we can ask for.”

Cat would love to forbid the whole thing, but she knows it wouldn’t put an end to the relationship. Sansa was the most compliant of her children, but she’s an adult, and if Cat wants to have an adult relationship with her daughter, allowing her to make her own choices is a part of that.

“You afraid he’ll propose at dinner?”

She almost hits him with the egg frothed whisk, as he moves behind her. “Don’t joke.”

“Prepare yourself for that possibility is all I’m saying.” He sweeps her hair over her shoulder. “Though I don’t think the boy could work up the nerve in front of a crowd. You’ll probably be spared the actual event.”

His warm hands close over her shoulders, as he adds, “Put down the bowl for a second. You’re as tight as a bowstring.”

He finds one of the knots, and she tips her head down with a wince.

“I don’t hate the idea,” she says, letting her weight settle into her left foot. If she switches back and forth, there’s a moment of relief. “If they’re going to get married. Eventually.”

“Are you trying to convince yourself of that?”

“No. He’s at least got a job now. And he’s… sweet to her. I don’t hate him.”

“I know.”

“I’m not thrilled with the prospect of her giving her life up to be with him though.”

“No point in worrying about what might never come to be.”

They hadn’t even breathed their first breath before she was worrying about her children.

“Come to bed,” he repeats, this time with his mouth hovering by her neck. He presses a gentle kiss to her tortured muscle.

She’s tempted, but the pie will be ruined if she lets it sit in this half-finished form overnight. “It’s going to be an hour in the oven, honey.”

“Then I’ll pour you a bath. Get the pie in and come upstairs.”

She turns into him, slipping her arms around his waist. “You’re a good man.”

“I’m a man, who needs a hobby. I need to get myself a job. Follow in Jon’s footsteps,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers.

She can tell it’s already driving him crazy, having no purpose, no calling. If they move back to Michigan, she doesn’t doubt he’ll find some way to throw himself back into civil service. Or something else to keep her up at nights: like volunteer fire fighting. God forbid.

“Massage maybe,” she says, brushing her lips against his.

He gives her rear a pat. “Don’t dream up a fifth pie before you come upstairs.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dknc in thanks for her donation to fight nazis. My donation drive post is [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/164142028415/donation-drive).


End file.
